


They Hand their Heads

by Gnilnim27



Series: The Dead Don't Share [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Everyone is trying to manipulate everyone else, M/M, Mind Games, Power Dynamics, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnilnim27/pseuds/Gnilnim27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curtains shift and the light shimmers in a dance. Will closes his eyes and holds his breath and for a moment, he experiences a sort of artificial silence. Then, it is gone with the roaring of blood through his ears and the beating of his heart, muscles constricting, frantic for air. He frowns. It’s amazing how <i>noisy</i> the human body is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Hand their Heads

He sets both their bodies side by side, each its own slab of metal, a transparent coffin of air. Will leans forward, so close his nose almost brushes her skin. She has no smell, which is strange. He thinks she should. She should smell bad and rotting like how a dead person should and suddenly she does. It hits him so strongly he almost stumbles back but he evens his stance and steadies himself.

 

The holes puncturing her skin are almost shriveled and dried. He steps back and runs a finger across the ridge of her skin, where her ribs must have been snapped apart, cleanly and with precision. There should have been lungs to fill that gaping cavity but instead her esophagus ends like an unfinished tapestry, the emptiness so palpable it draws his gaze even as it repulses him.

 

Will turns his back to her and studies Marissa. She’s fresher and not as pale. He presses a fingertip against the puncture wound where the stag’s antler penetrated her and a little blood oozes out, dark and thick. He watches it bead around his finger sluggishly. Apart from the wounds, she’s whole. Will doesn’t think it's right. She shouldn’t be untouched and complete and _still perfect_. 

 

He studies her face. There’s more colour in her cheeks now and tiny holes on her body stretch wider and begins to fill up with blood. She smells nicer than Cassie Boyle, a bit like plums and leaves. She _is_ fresher after all. He bites his lip and wonders which part he should take, to make her un-whole. He wants the bit of her that _taste good_ , the best part. But which…?

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Will blinks. His heart jumps in his chest and he takes a few measured breaths to calm down. The photograph in his hand starts to shake imperceptibly and he wills it still.

 

Beverly Katz easily navigates her way towards him despite the fact that the only lights Will had switched on were the ones directly above him. The rest of the lab bleeds into shadows. “It’s like five in the morning,” she says, coming to stand beside him and studying the photographs he laid out on the table. Will had placed each detailed photo of body parts and wounds of the copycat’s victim in a collage, a human sized jigsaw puzzle which eventually formed the whole body.

 

Katz makes an impressed sound. “Wow. Look at you. Trip down memory lane?”

 

Will’s jaw tightens. “Not exactly. What are _you_ doing here? It’s like five o’clock. _In the morning_ ,” he mimics back.

 

He expects her to take offence but she just grins sharply. “I like some time to myself too. So, what _are_ you doing?” she asks, circling the two tables like a scavenger bird after dead remains. The analogy between vultures and the forensic team was oddly accurate and Will finds himself smiling, a little sickly, in amusement. Katz stops and raises her eyebrows at him. “You’re creepy, you know that?”

 

“Oh, trust me,” he shrugs. “I do know.” He turns his attention back to the photographs. Will would never consider himself a prideful man. But he was usually confident and sure of his analysis, and confidence came with not a certain amount of ego. 

 

Do crows peck out the eyes first? Butchered, displayed, less of a human than an animal. It certainly felt right at the time. But Will had made a mistake, miscalculated, and misdiagnosed the situation. He looks at the photograph in his hand. It's a close-up shot of her face, a little bruised from where her killer had punched her in the mouth. There is something repugnant about it, like it doesn’t fit into anything else. He had been so sure and now he isn’t sure at all.

 

The lab is too bright. Katz had turned on all lights so the room was white and reflective, the shadows disappearing all at once and making Will feel exposed. He shivers, feeling a sudden chill that he hadn’t noticed before. 

 

“Hey, I thought the FBI was hunting for Nicholas Boyle. He’s our copycat, right?” Katz says from a nearby lab station. “If you have something on your mind, you can tell me. I can be like… your sounding board.” Even as she says this, Will notices she’s already busy prepping her station, mixing chemicals and setting up lab equipment.

 

“I don’t know if it’s Boyle,” he tells her, frustrated.

 

“You don’t think it’s Boyle?” Her eyebrows are going up in a way that makes him feel absurd and slightly on the edge.

 

“I don’t know,” he grits out. “I can’t… I can’t see anything.”

 

She puts down the dropper she is holding. “What do you mean?”

 

Will sighs. It isn’t working. He thinks he likes Katz. She’s direct and unafraid of pushing his buttons and she doesn’t skirt around and treat him like glass. She doesn’t balk at crime scenes and she doesn’t make stupid observations. When she goes home, she turns off all the bad things she sees and runs herself a hot bath. She’ll put on some music, something loud with a beat she can dance to. If she’s seeing someone, they’ll go out for dinner and watch a movie and curl up to sleep together. And when she wakes up the next day, she’s ready to turn herself back on because she can always switch off again when her job is done. Will feels a surge of envy as he stares at her and along with it, annoyance. Then, _anger_.

 

He reels it in and closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. “You’re not a very good sounding board,” he says quietly and picks up the photos, stuffs them in a folder and leaves, already imagining her stunned look of hurt at his retreating back. 

 

\--

 

Will stares at the ceiling. The light creeps in through his windows, through his curtains and paints the cool grey ceiling with shadows. It’s four in the evening and he’s lying in his bed. He hadn’t changed since he got home from the BAU Headquaters.

 

One foot dangles off the bed, encased in a sock. He jerks it lightly, tapping on air to a rhythm he doesn’t hear. The curtains shift and the light shimmers in a dance. Will closes his eyes and holds his breath and for a moment, he experiences a sort of artificial silence. Then, it is gone with the roaring of blood through his ears and the beating of his heart, muscles constricting, frantic for air. He frowns. It’s amazing how noisy the human body is.

 

Will stands at a table. The colour of the room doesn’t matter. What matters is the girl on the table. She’s alive and naked but unconscious. He takes the knife, poises it over her and hesitates. A bead of sweat rolls into his eye which he blinks away. His eyes runs over her bare chest, nipples dark against her pale skin, down to the secret space between her legs, further pass to her feet, her toes long and oddly curled. His hand starts to shake. In a moment she is going to wake up and _he doesn’t even know where to begin_.

 

Will opens his eyes with a gasp and feels the air rushing back into his lungs, twin balloons expanding greedily. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the stag cantering in his living room, its hooves making only the lightest scraping noise.

 

The dogs start barking.

 

Will swings out of bed, his hand already reaching for the gun. He checks the safety then walks softly to the living room. The dogs are scraping at the door, making soft whiny noises. Will shushes them sharply and waits for a knock that never comes. In the following silence, he grips his gun tighter and listens to footsteps moving around his porch. He edges to the door, counts to three and throws it open and aims the gun at Abigail Hobbs.

 

Abigail doesn’t scream, just looks at him wide-eyed before she seems to gather herself together. Her hair is tied in a neat pony-tail and the scarf around her neck is some dark silk auburn colour that makes her blue eyes as bright as a robin’s egg. “Hello,” she says tentatively. 

 

Will lowers his gun. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking at his feet then at the green and orange trees across the street. “I thought…. You should have knocked.”

 

“I wanted to but your dogs started barking and I got… scared,” she explains. “I thought I’d used the back door.”

 

Will nods grimly. The dogs swarm out to sniff her where she stands. She startles and watches them, unsure, as they nose her shoes and lick at her pants. “What are you doing here?” Will asks.

 

“I went to the FBI building but they said you already left,” Abigail says. “So I took a bus and walked here.” She tries to catch his eyes for a reaction but Will keeps his gaze on her scarf, on her throat. “ Did I catch you at a bad time?”

 

“No,” Will says. “Abigail, _what are you doing?_ ”

 

Abigail steps carefully around the dogs and stands in front of him. She’s still pale but something in her expression looks firm, less traumatized. Will thinks she looks so young, too young to be travelling all the way here on her own. She studies him as if for the first time and he feels strangely self-conscious under her innocent scrutiny. “I just realized,” Abigail was saying, “That I didn’t thank you. For saving me.”

 

Will can’t help the sarcastic twitch of his lips. “Did Dr. Lecter send you?” he asks.

 

“No,” she says defensively and doesn’t elaborate, her chin held a little higher and finally boring her gaze into his. He thinks again how blue her eyes are, clear like the sky.

 

“Okay,” he concedes, with a half-smile. “Okay.”

 

“I was thinking,” Abigail says, gaze dropping away, now a little embarrassed. “Maybe we could go get McDonald’s… or something.”

 

“Sure,” Will replies as he herds the dogs back into the house. “Just let me get my jacket.”

 

Abigail quirks a smile at him. “Will, you are wearing your jacket.” He looks at himself and finds that she is right, of course. He had forgotten to take it off. The look on his face makes her laugh, a soft giggly sound like she’s afraid of making too much noise so soon. He takes his gun with him anyhow and they drive into town.

 

\--

 

“How’s school?” Will asks, for lack anything else to talk about that didn’t involve impaled bodies and slit throats. The beef burger tastes strange to him now that he hasn’t eaten one in such a long time. Abigail bites into hers with relish.

 

“Hmm. I haven’t started yet.” She looks apologetic about speaking before swallowing. “I mean, I’m taking some time off. For, like, a month.”

 

“Oh,” Will says and wishes Hannibal was here.

 

“The FBI set me up in this apartment but I think I’m moving out once everything is settled.”

 

“Right.”

 

They lapse into silence, Abigail sucking on her soft drink and Will drawing absently in his ketchup with a French fry. He thinks it has the colour of coagulated blood.

 

“Do you always do that?” Abigail asks. Will jerks up and stares at her. “Lose yourself in your own head?”

 

“Sometimes,” he admits. “It’s not something I can stop.”

 

She shrugs and munches on a fry. “Maybe you don’t want to stop,” Abigail says. “Cause it helps you catch bad people. People like my dad.”

 

Her face is blank and differential when she says this. She blinks at him and he thinks of her soft eyelashes caressing her cheeks. Will thinks about pulling her close, a warm embrace, whispering empty promises into her ear and running a blade cross her neck, the turn and fall of her body as her hair sweeps across his face. He swallows. “Uh…,” he begins and swallows again. “It’s not easy to tell what lurks… in someone’s mind.”

 

“Yeah,” she smiles wryly. “But you can.” Her faith makes Will’s chest warm and tight. It also frightens him. “Are you going to catch Boyle?”

 

Will sighs. “I’m trying. Just kind of… stuck.”

 

“Huh,” says Abigail softly, looking thoughtful. “Do you think it was him? Who killed Marissa?” Her voice drops towards the end so it comes out in a whisper.

 

“He’s the logical suspect.” 

 

“What if you never find him?” she presses.

 

Will studies her worried face, a little scared frown creasing her eyebrows together. “I’m just hoping he’ll never find you,” he tells her. Abigail leans back, nodding and biting her lower lip. Her eyes shift, seeing something that Will isn’t privy to. He hopes it’s relief and not defeat that makes her shoulders slump. 

 

“Well,” Abigail pipes suddenly. “If he does, you can always save me again.” She scoots forward in her seat and resumes eating. Her right hand rests beside Will’s, not quite touching but close enough for him to feel its warm presence. She starts talking about random things, her new neighbours, his dogs and forcing him to describe each one’s personality. Will allows himself a smile.

 

\--

 

Will knows how much emphasis Hannibal puts on manners so, he knocks once, very sharply before opening the door to the office. Hannibal is busy writing at his desk and doesn’t look up but says, “Ah. Hello, Will.”

 

Will storms into the room and stops directly in front of him. “You sent her.”

 

Hannibal spares him a curious glance but the pen sails on without pause, his neat cursive flowing in black ink in the paper. “Excuse me?”

 

“I don’t need therapy,” Will hisses. “I _especially_ don’t need therapy from _you_ , through a girl that _nearly got killed twice_.” 

 

Hannibal finally looks up at him, face impassive and unreadable. “She insisted on meeting you. I merely gave her your address.”

 

“She chose you as her psychiatrist. You aren’t supposed to send her out by herself. And you’re not supposed _to give out my address_.”

 

“Are you worried about her mental state? I assure you, Abigail is more stable than you imagine.” Hannibal turns back to his writing. Will stares at the top of his neatly combed hair and the slope of his shoulders, hidden in expensive layers. He feels unreasonably angry at Hannibal.

 

“What I’m worried about,” he says in a low voice. “Is her safety.”

 

Hannibal looks at him again. “She’s safe.” And the strange lilt that always coloured his words lend a certainty that Will found impossible to challenge. “Now, if you don’t mind, Will, I really must finish this report.” 

 

Will knows a dismissal when he hears one but he isn’t willing to back down yet. He remains standing and sweeps his gaze around the room, intrusive and proprietary. He wants to break everything; smash the vase and cabinets with their mysterious paraphernalia. He wonders what Hannibal would do if he broke his things and secretly relishes in the idea of getting him angry. There’s a mound of dead girls piling in his mind, each on their own special table and Will doesn’t know how to proceed with them. Slit open their chest with graceful clarity, smell the blood before tasting with the tip of his tongue? Or hold them, body weight warm and scent musky as he settles them, still breathing, on a throne of antlers? The knife in his hand always hesitates at the last moment. It’s so frustrating he wants to scream.

 

“I’m so messed up,” Will whispers and collapses into what has become his usual spot. Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just keeps writing so Will waits and hears the humming of the air conditioning, white noise to the dullness in his head. He barely notices when Hannibal settles opposite him but when he does, Will straightens and stands. He feels too much like a patient to remain seated. Instead, he walks around the room, running his fingers over items he fantasized of destroying. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him.

 

“Did the meeting go well?” asks Hannibal.

 

“Oh, it went well. I uh…,” Will studies a strange miniature wooden carving of a devilish face, eyes wild with fire burning out from the wood. “”I don’t think about… things when I’m with her. At least, not so much.”

 

“You think about protecting her,” Hannibal observes, quite accurately as always. “Yet, you’re upset.”

 

Will walks a few more paces until he reaches Hannibal’s desk. “She could have been attacked.”

 

“You are worried about her safety. That is understandable. But there is more to it than that,” Hannibal says. “What is it, Will?”

 

Will turns around and crosses his arms, leaning against the desk. “It’s this… copycat. I can’t… I can’t get into his head.” It feels like a huge relief telling Hannibal, admitting this weakness to someone who understands.

 

“We have ascertained the copycat is Nicholas Boyle.”

 

“Is it? The first time, I said it was a one time kill, he wouldn’t do it again. There was no reason to do it again. And when I think about it, I know I was right. But then the second time… it just doesn’t fit.”

 

“She insulted Boyle. Perhaps it was an act of vengeance.”

 

Will took off his glasses and wiped them with the hem of his shirt. He had taken Marissa, assaulted her, punched her when he had been so careful not to leave evidence before. Mount her but didn’t take any part from her. Why? Disgust? He had time. Time to do whatever he wanted. “He came to Hobb’s cabin. Does that sound like an intelligent psychopath to you?”

 

Hannibal seems to turn this over in his mind. “We all make mistakes, Will. That is how criminals are caught. You are like a hound that keeps sniffing because he can’t believe he found the fox’s den so fast.”

 

It's the thinly veiled patronising tone that makes Will's hands clench and his jaw tighten. “You think you know what goes in my head but _you have no idea_ ,” Will spits out the words. “I still dream of killing her. You say this is some warped manifestation of my guilt. I don’t know what it is.” He hates that he doesn’t trust himself around Abigail or the fact that seeing her makes him happy and he doesn’t want to rely on anything for good feelings like safety and happiness because those things don’t last.

 

“Will, you are being irrational,” Hannibal chides, his tone remains the same, patient and calm despite Will’s outburst. Will doesn’t know why that makes him so angry. He strides forward the three steps that is needed to lean down and kiss Hannibal.

 

For a moment, he thinks Hannibal is too stunned to respond then a hand squeezes the back of his neck, Hannibal’s fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. Will gasps at the sudden pain and Hannibal licks hungrily into his open mouth. The kiss is rough and far from gentle. Will closes his eyes and loses himself in it. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about this, Hannibal’s hot mouth and hard hands, fingers teasing the strip of skin between his shirt and pants. Too distracting, too visceral but now hunger rises like a starving beast and Will wants. 

 

He buries his hands in Hannibal’s hair, half climbing into his lap. Hannibal pulls Will’s lower lip between his teeth and Will surges forward, pushing his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth and tasting wine and copper where his lip must be bleeding. He thinks of a hard knife in his hand and Hannibal pressed against his back, a solid guiding warmth, showing him through whispered words, exactly where to place the first cut.

 

Will pulls away, breathing hard. He’s straddling Hannibal, whose hands have come to rest on Will’s hips. They are both hard and Hannibal looks far from proper right now. It makes Will smile, secretly pleased. He runs a tongue over his lip. It stings in a way that sends a jolt of pleasure down his spine. Hannibal is watching.

 

“As much as I regret to stop, dear Will, I have an appointment in ten minutes with a patient I believe is already outside the door,” Hannibal says, running a hand through his hair and smoothening it down. There is a gleam in his eyes, like he thinks he has won something.

 

Will doesn’t like it. He slides forward until he can feel Hannibal’s erection pressing against his own. Hannibal doesn’t move an inch. “I’m sure you do regret it,” Will says simply. The hoarseness in his voice surprises him. “And just so you know,” he breathes into Hannibal’s ear. “I’ll sniff as much as I want. _And I don’t make mistakes_.” He eases off Hannibal’s lap and knows Hannibal is smiling but he doesn’t let himself see what sort as he walks out the office.

 

It isn’t entirely true, of course. Will does make mistakes but not something like this. And he can’t let anyone, not even Hannibal, make him doubt himself. _Maybe you don’t want to stop._ Will might not trust his control but he trusts his instincts. When it comes to fight-or-flight, life or death, the only thing a man can rely on is pure animal instinct.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot tamer than the first one and not as dark. But I hope it's still enjoyable. This is a three part series so the next one is probably the last one.
> 
> P/S: For anyone who is wondering, the name of the series and subsequent titles are from a poem by Stan Rice called 'Their Share'.


End file.
